Blue Rondo

by John Lawton

  ‘Phoning someone, were you?’

  ‘Claridge’s,’ he said simply, marvelling how neatly the truth became a lie.

  § 55

  In the middle of the night the phone rang.

  Not Jack?

  Not another dismembered body?

  Surely?

  It was Tosca. At the sound of her croaky hello, Troy turned to see if Kitty had woken. She hadn’t.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Heathrow. My plane leaves in less than an hour.’

  ‘Leaves for where?’

  ‘Not gonna tell you that. We don’t have the time. I just wanted you to know you blew it.’

  § 56

  Troy and Milligan met in the Chandos about half an hour before closing time. It was the first time Troy had been into the pub since the night Brock had been killed. The blast had forced the place to smarten up a bit. It had lost its front windows and, in replacing them, much of the pre-war feel of the place had gone – peeled off with the wallpaper, thrown out with the chairs and tables. No bad thing, thought Troy – it had given it a look of its own time, brought a bit of old London into the 1950s. Kicking and screaming might well be the cliché – if that could in any measure qualify the effect of a bomb. It had been Brock who kicked and screamed as his skin turned to cinder on his flesh.

  ‘I’m sorry to drag you out, Freddie, but there are things I need to tell you.’

  Troy noted that Milligan wasn’t saying ‘talk about’, he was saying ‘tell’. He looked awful. Another man’s dying had put years on him. At best Paddy was the sort of bloke who looked in need of a shave or half asleep, but those were the illusions of appearance not the man. But now the bags under his eyes, the lines scored in each cheek were real. His dad was killing him. ‘I can’t go on. I’ve got to put in me papers. This thing with my old man is tearing me apart. I can’t be in two places at once. So I’ve decided. I’m puttin’ in me papers.’

  It was eerie. Paddy was using exactly the same words Brock had used, in the same pub, at the same time of night. If it weren’t for the refit, it might even have been the same table – they were sitting in the same spot.

  ‘You don’t have to do that, you know.’

  Milligan was weeping silently, two small rivulets coursing down his cheeks. Troy reached out a hand, but before he could touch him the man had whipped out his handkerchief and honked. A rough seizure of self-control that didn’t quite work.

  ‘There’s compassionate leave,’ Troy said softly.

  ‘How much do you think I’ve had in the last four months? I’ve exceeded any reasonable limit they might have. My nick’s going to hell in a handcart. Jack said as much this afternoon.’

  ‘You’ve seen Jack?’

  ‘Came over to Stepney. I’m not sure I’d ever say Jack was a mate, but we’ve been through a couple of scrapes together – you know, you were there yourself – but today I felt like one of the dogs. He was – he was on the edge of rage all the bloody time. I could feel it. He didn’t let rip. But he let me know in no uncertain terms what he thought of me.’

  Troy said, ‘It’s not Jack’s decision, fortunately. It’s Onions’s. And Jack’s been like that a lot lately. We’ve all seen it. He’s too many unsolved murders on his hands. At least five at the moment – if you count Bernie Champion.’

  Troy had thought a bit of professional interest might make Milligan perk up at this, but he ignored it.

  ‘He closed the door to my office and asked me straight out, did I think Al Mazzer was bent?’

  There was no way out now. No amount of sympathy could grant leeway to spare his feelings. ‘Is he?’ Troy said simply.

  Milligan reddened, visibly. Tightened his fist round the double whisky he had not yet touched. ‘I’ll tell you what I told Jack. No. Absolutely fuckin’ not! Do you think I’d accept a bent copper in my nick? Do you think that because a bloke’s a bit flash, dresses well, he’s automatically on the take? No, Freddie, no!’

  Paddy’s glass shattered in his hand. A jet of blood and Scotch shot out across the table. Troy looked up. The whole room was staring at them now. Troy stared back until the heads turned away and the bar-room buzz began again. He passed a clean handkerchief to Paddy, watched as he staunched the cuts to his hand, wiped at his cheeks, red with rage, wet with grief.

  ‘We had to ask,’ Troy whispered.

  Milligan whispered back, ‘I know, I know. Somebody tipped you off, nobody’s sayin’ who . . .’ Again tears welled in his eyes, he bent his head and his voice rumbled in his throat. ‘I’m sorry, Freddie. I really am. I’d better go.’

  Troy placed a hand on his arm and gently held him. ‘There’s still something to be done.’

  Milligan raised his head, a mask of pain and misery. ‘What?’

  ‘I can talk to Onions. Onions can talk to the chief constable in Lancashire, the ACC in Liverpool. We can get you a transfer.’

  ‘There’s nothing. I asked. If I asked once I asked a dozen times.’

  ‘Manchester, then? Warrington? Preston?’

  Milligan drew deep breaths, calmed himself before answering. ‘Truth to tell, I didn’t look that far afield. All I could see was being there. Me being there, in the ’Pool. With me dad in the ’Pool.’

  ‘But you could,’ Troy proceeded slowly, ‘handle things from Warrington or Manchester or . . .’

  ‘I suppose so. It’s just that all I could think of was . . .’

  ‘Then let me handle it. I’ll talk to Onions. I’ll get you the transfer.’

  ‘Can you really do that, Freddie?’

  ‘Of course,’ Troy lied. ‘But there’s one other thing I need to know.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The Ryan twins. Did Jack ask you about them?’

  ‘Yep. And I told him. We’ve had those two marked since they got out of the army. They’re villains right enough, but small-time. They live in Watney Street – half of Watney Street is crooked. I reckon they ring cars and fence a bit of stuff. They’ve got a garage under the arches in Shadwell. I’ve raided them a couple of times. Never been able to catch ’em. But it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘So, they’re not the East End’s new Mr Big?’

  ‘Freddie, it’s good of you to try and cheer me up, and funny as that is I really don’t feel like laughin’ right now.’

  § 57

  Onions was not in a good mood. ‘Why is Milligan pestering you? Doesn’t he know you’re off sick?’

  ‘He’s not pestering me. We had a couple of drinks in the pub and it all came out,’ Troy lied. ‘Stan, trust me. Do this for me.’

  ‘Hasn’t he had any leave?’

  ‘I believe he’s had lots of leave, but the fact remains he needs more.’

  ‘OK, OK. If I agree to this, though God knows why I should, then there are consequences and there are questions.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Who’s number two at Stepney and is he capable of running a nick until we get someone in or promote some lucky sod?’

  ‘He’s called Al Mazzer, and the answer’s no. He can’t be allowed to run a nick and he shouldn’t be promoted.’

  ‘You know the bloke?’

  ‘Never met him.’

  ‘Then whatever it is you’re not tellin’ me I think you’d better tell now.’

  Troy told him. Jack would just have to live with it. He could almost see Onions’s fuse catch light.

  ‘What? What? On the word of a constable who’s still wet behind the ears?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Freddie, I do not take lightly to my coppers being called crooked. I want hard evidence before I act on stuff like that.’

  ‘I believe Robertson.’

  ‘Freddie, you’ve never met the man. I’m not pointing the finger at a copper on the word of a green recruit.’

  ‘Then you and Jack think as one. You are in the majority. But all I’m asking is that you do nothing. I’m not saying haul him in, kick him out. I’m saying leave him exactly wh
ere he is.’

  Silence.

  ‘You can do that, Stan. Can’t you?’

  ‘I can. But that still leaves us without a DDI for Stepney.’

  ‘An outsider. Someone who’s never worked in London before.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Let me sleep on it.’

  § 58

  In ’56 Troy had investigated a case in the north of England. A furniture salesman from a one-horse town in the middle of Derbyshire had vanished, and the wife had appealed to Troy. Unfortunately Troy had found not a live if straying husband but a dead frogman, and he’d found him underneath a Russian battleship in Portsmouth harbour. The ramifications of this had rumbled on for weeks. It had been a diplomatic incident. Out of it came two visits to Belper, Derbyshire. One had resulted in his relationship with Foxx, the other in a debt of gratitude to a young policeman, who had defied his bosses to help Troy. Troy had kept in touch with Detective Sergeant Ray Godbehere. Sooner or later, he knew, there would be a way to repay the debt.

  ‘It’s been a while, Mr Troy,’ Godbehere said. ‘I almost thought you’d forgotten me.’

  ‘No, a few months, surely.’

  ‘No, sir, it’s more than a year since you last rang.’

  ‘And have there been changes?’

  ‘What? In this nick?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Warriss is due to retire next year. I don’t believe he intends to recommend me for the promotion in his stead, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Your accent. Are you a local man?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’m from Sheffield.’

  ‘Any particular prejudice against London?’

  ‘Lead me to it.’

  ‘Fine. Leave it with me and I’ll get back to you later today.’

  ‘Mr Troy, not so fast. You can’t just dangle this in front of me without a clue as to what it is.’

  ‘You’re the new divisional detective inspector of Stepney. I’ll get your file plonked in front of the commissioner later today, and when he rubber-stamps it I’ll call you back.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to concentrate on me job in the meantime? Bloody hell.’

  ‘No, Mr Godbehere, you’re supposed to pack.’

  § 59

  Forty-eight hours passed.

  Onions called with a terse ‘You’d better be right about this bloke.’

  Jack called with a terser ‘Cunt.’

  § 60

  Troy could not face another meeting in the Chandos. It had, in so short a time, achieved too symbolic a value. He would always associate it with the physical dissolution of Brock, and the spiritual dissolution of Milligan. When Godbehere called he suggested instead the pub nearest his own house – the theatreland watering hole, the Salisbury in St Martin’s Lane, a plush, mirrored, gilded boozer in the high Victorian style.

  He watched Godbehere at the bar, wondering if at thirty he’d had that same young, determined look about him. He knew he had, he just found it so hard to remember. It was like an age of innocence, and that, too, was in the nature of an illusion. He’d never been innocent, as Kolankiewicz reminded him once or twice a year when the vodka had washed away the last vestiges of the old man’s caution.

  Godbehere slapped down a ginger beer in front of Troy and a large vodka for himself.

  ‘Are you settled in?’

  ‘I’ve digs across the river in Southwark. I never think it pays to live on the manor. I’ve a room in a house practically on top of Borough Tube station.’

  ‘Underground,’ Troy said. ‘Only tourists call it the Tube.’

  ‘I think there are one or two at Leman Street nick who think I might be a tourist.’

  ‘Have they made you welcome?’

  ‘The air of resentment is so thick you could stuff it in your pipe and smoke it. But that’d be true of any nick you could post me to. It won’t last. I’m in charge and they know it. Mr Wildeve came round in person on the first day. I felt anointed. If he doesn’t want me there he’s not letting on.’

  ‘I don’t think Jack knows what he wants.’

  ‘Can I be frank, sir?’

  ‘Of course, and drop the “sir”.’

  ‘Then,’ Godbehere went on, ‘I don’t think that matters. You’re calling the shots. It’s what you think that matters. And you do know what you think or I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d be stuck in Derbyshire still wondering if I’d make it past sergeant.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘You got me down to the Smoke for a purpose. I’m curious to know what.’

  ‘What has Jack told you?’

  ‘He was blunt. Very blunt. Told me he thinks my predecessor fucked up in spades. Filled me in on the problem with the Ryans. Made it clear I’d got my work cut out, and told me to have no hesitation, “none whatsoever,” I think he said, in calling in the Yard when I saw fit.’

  ‘And your detective sergeant?’

  ‘Mr Mazzer? He told me to watch Mr Mazzer. Wouldn’t go any further than that. Warned me he’d been passed over for promotion and there was bound to be friction.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ said Troy. ‘Mazzer’s bent. Jack is being exceptionally cautious in not warning you of that. That, after all, is why you’re here. Report to Jack what you see fit, but report everything to me. I don’t want Mazzer watched, I want him cut out. I want him marginalised until I know what he’s up to. And I want him to know as little as possible of your investigation into the Ryans. Tomorrow you’ll get a call from a chap called George Bonham. He was station sergeant at Leman Street for years. Meet him at his flat. Tell no one what you’re doing. He’ll put you in touch with every East End nark he knows. You’re to build up a dossier. I want to know everyone who works for the Ryans, every job that can reasonably be put down to them, all their assets, every piece of property they own, every bank account they have, everyone who’s ever so much as taken a tanner from them.’

  ‘You think Mr Mazzer’s taken the odd tanner?’

  ‘I’d like to say I know it in my bones. But I can’t. It’s a hunch. Not a guess or a longshot. A hunch. And I’ve gambled a lot persuading the commissioner to act on my hunch. Have you raised the issue of the Ryans with Mazzer?’

  ‘Oh, aye, I raised it all right.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He told me they were “fly” – that was his word “fly”, “fly and harmless”.’

  § 61

  Bruno is tied to a dining chair with gaffer tape. His wife Glenda is also taped to a chair. The difference is that they’ve taped across her mouth too. Bruno can see the flare of her nostrils above the strip of black plastic and the wide-eyed stare of panic in her eyes. She is grunting.

  Ryan presses the barrel of his revolver into Bruno’s forehead. ‘I’m gonna ask you one more time, Bruno—’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  Ryan pulls back the gun and cracks him above the ear with it. ‘Naughty, naughty. Now. Here me out, old son. I’m gonna ask you one more time. You tell me where my money is or your missus gets it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t d—’

  Ryan swings round neatly, levels the gun and shoots Glenda Felucci in the face. Bone and brains splatter out across the wallpaper, a fountain of blood a foot high spurts from the back of her head, the chair goes over backwards and Bruno finds himself looking up the skirt of his dead wife. A grotesque and trivial indecency.

  Ryan puts the gun back on Bruno’s forehead, but all Bruno can say is ‘Waa, waa, waa, waa.’

  ‘Oh, fuckin’ ‘ell. Oh, fuckin’ ’ell. Bruno! Bruno!’

  Ryan slaps him, but all Bruno can say is, ‘Waa, waa, waa, waa.’

  ‘Oh, fuckin’ ’ell. Just tape the bugger up, will you?’

  ‘Shouldn’t we kill him too?’

  ‘If we kill ’em both, you plonker, we’ll never get our money back, now, will we? Just tape up that clanging manhole. I can’t bear to listen to ’im.’

  It’s forty minutes before the police arrive. The first man in throws up at the sight of Gle
nda Felucci. The second pulls down her skirt and tears the strip of gaffertape off Bruno’s mouth.

  Bruno whispers, ‘Ryan.’

  For several hours it is all he says.

  3

  The Life of You

  § 62

  August burnt. A searing sun in a cloudless sky. It was a favourite month of Troy’s. The persistence of childhood. His birthday fell in the last week of August, leaving three whole weeks of anticipation. Even now, when he scarcely bothered to acknowledge birthdays, to see August on the calendar created that same sense of waiting for something. August burnt. He sat on the shady side of the court, read an American novel Kitty had abandoned on his bedside table – Henderson the Rain King, by Saul Bellow. It appeared to be the tale of a man who was partly inspired, partly crazy and completely frustrated. It was not Kitty’s kind of book. It was his kind of book. And he read in the papers of droughts in East Anglia, of peatland fires in Derbyshire, of the extended national tour to the Royals and Empires of provincial Britain by one Vince Christy, of the impending state visit of President Eisenhower – and of the murder of Glenda Felucci in an Essex village and the almost immediate arrest of two unnamed suspects.

  And he called Kolankiewicz. ‘What kind of gun killed Bruno’s wife?’

  ‘A .357. Can we either of us be surprised at that?’

  And he waited for the call from Jack that never came. August burnt. August was a month of waiting.

  § 63

  Stanley Onions professed a taste for whisky amounting to discernment. Troy knew him better than he knew himself. Onions’s idea of whisky was a cheap blended from an off-licence that he would food with tap water. Troy cared little for spirits at the best of times and would drink them only to ‘join’ whoever had pulled the cork or twisted the cap. He had done this a lot with Kitty of late. He could see himself doing it this evening. Onions bulked on his doorstep. Blue suit, black boots, short back and sides, bullet-headed, bull-brained and bear-bodied, a battered brown briefcase under one arm, a bottle of whisky clutched in his hand – the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force disguised as an ordinary copper. The last thing he was. Apart from the odd days when protocol forced him into blue serge and shiny buttons, this outfit, and variations on a theme, were all he ever wore – and it was still a disguise. Onions was an extra-ordinary copper.